


Something About Us

by Loz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Complicated Relationships, Harm to Animals, M/M, Not technically underage but close, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-04-24 18:21:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 19,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4930234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s been warned about this countless times, told to keep his distance. He’s not supposed to be their friend. Don’t let them think he is. He shouldn’t let them get too close, shouldn’t want to be close to them. He’s been sure the warnings were redundant. </p><p>But then Scott wanders into his classroom, sits, attentive and considerate and dedicated – freaking <i>sedulous</i> – and Stiles is screwed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting from tumblr. Title from the Daft Punk song.

He’s been warned about this countless times, told to keep his distance. He’s not supposed to be their friend. Don’t let them think he is. He shouldn’t let them get too close, shouldn’t want to be close to them.

“You’re young and handsome,” they say; insults every time. “They’re impressionable and desperate to impress.”

And he’s laughed off the well-meaning advice, joked about being older than his years, always viewed his students as punk kids at best, idiot children at worst. He’s been sure the warnings were redundant. 

But then Scott wanders into his classroom, sits, attentive and considerate and dedicated – fucking _sedulous_ – and Stiles is screwed.

It’s not a matter of him being the shiniest star; Scott isn’t the quickest thinker among all of his groups. This isn’t because he’s not quick, because he is, but there are a couple of genius level students at this school, who honestly probably shouldn’t be at school, except they need to learn how to do basic things like talk to other people. Scott’s not the most creative, nor the most original. 

What Scott does is make connections. What he does is apply himself. He tries and he _learns_ , and honestly, Stiles feels massive, unwieldy amounts of guilt for his Scott-related feelings, because he’s pretty sure he’s not supposed to respect his students quite like this. He’s 100% certain his admiration is bridging some kind of moral, ethical and legal line.

He could listen to Scott’s soft, warm voice for hours. Did once, listening to a recording of one of his public speaking exercises. Had to transcribe and then delete the file. He could watch his clumsy, awkward saunter into his class every period of the day, the way he’ll inevitably tip half the contents he’s holding onto the floor, or hit into someone else and send their stuff soaring, only to blush as he helps them retrieve it. He could stare into Scott’s eyes and watch interest and intellect flicker and dance, as Scott makes realizations, as he parses, synthesizes, understands. 

He could spend forever with him, he thinks, if given half the chance.

(It doesn’t help that he’s seen Scott sweaty after lacrosse practice, uniform clinging to his muscular physique. Doesn’t help that he once accidentally walked in on him kissing Danny and easily imagined what it must have felt like, lips, teeth and tongue. Doesn’t help that Scott’s full-grown and mature in ways some of his other students only pretend at.)

And Scott likes him. He knows he does. He shouldn’t analyze the nature of his attachment, but – Stiles is young, he’s handsome – and Scott’s been on dates with both girls and boys since he moved to Beacon Hills. The shy way Scott will duck his head when they see each other outside of school. The occasional conversations Stiles has overheard. The lingering gazes and genuine joy at his attention. They all paint a picture. 

If Stiles were a better man, he’d be upfront with leadership and request a different position. If Stiles were a worse man, he’d plot and plan his exploitation of the warm-hearted boy with the kind eyes. 

He couldn’t live with himself if he took advantage. Not really. 5 years may not be a huge age-difference if they were both past 20, Scott may legally be an adult, but the power dynamics are fucked up and Stiles is a lot of things, but mostly he’s exactly halfway between saint and sinner. 

So he has no idea what to do one evening, when Scott corners him near his local Thai restaurant. He’s been keeping his distance, careful not to be cruel, but also far from being accommodating. He hasn’t been a friend, no matter how much he’s sometimes wanted to be. 

Scott’s holding a small bag of take-out and fiddling with his phone, frown creasing his forehead. 

“You need help, Scott?” Stiles asks, because he’s naturally concerned for any of his students roaming Beacon Hills after dark, it’s one of the hazards of his job. 

Scott winces, like he’s about to deliver bad news. “My bike’s not starting and no one’s picking up my call,” he says, despondent.

Stiles has two choices here: stay in a public space with Scott and wait until someone else takes care of him. Or offer to drive him home, where the two of them will be alone for the thirty-four or so minutes it takes to get to Scott’s house from the heart of the town. 

Stiles knows the choice he _should_ make. 

Scott settles into his Jeep with a grateful if distracted smile, and Stiles can hear his own heart hammering a mile a minute in his chest. 

“Thanks again, Mr. Stilinski,” Scott says when they’re off Main Street. “You probably just wanted to get dinner and go home to finish your marking.”

“In what world do you think any teacher actually wants to complete any marking?” Stiles asks, because, seriously. 

“An ideal world,” Scott replies, tone deceptively light, “Where seniors have had to hand in essays worth a third of their entire grade and they haven’t gotten their papers back yet.”

“Touché.”

“I’m guessing you’re not allowed to tell me how I’ve gone?”

Stiles hasn’t read Scott’s essay yet, because he frequently leaves his papers for last, worrying he’ll be biased otherwise and needing other examples to moderate it against. Scott’s essays are breaths of fresh air among the dross the majority of other students produce and the supercilious dross the geniuses put forth. Stiles is _totally_ biased. Absolutely and completely compromised.

“You’ll know when you know,” Stiles confirms. “Anyway, you’re pretty good at self-assessment, how do you think you did?”

Scott shrugs. “I think it’s okay.”

“You said that about the paper that earned you your highest grade.” 

“I can’t help that I’m humble.”

Scott has a dry sense of humor that many people either don’t seem to notice, or that they ignore. Stiles is ashamed of how much he revels in it. 

“You’ll be all right,” Stiles says. “It’s not like your entire life hangs in the balance of one paper, even though it feels like it at the moment.”

“You’re one of three teachers who say that,” Scott says. “Out of maybe fifteen I’ve had over the years?”

“Can’t let kids get too complacent,” Stiles admits. “Gotta terrify you into giving your all so we don’t get our funding slashed.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re one of those teaching graduates who hates the education system and wants to change it from the inside?”

Stiles snorts, slightly worried by the accuracy. “I don’t know, why do you?”

“You’re still all bright-eyed and inventive,” Scott says, playing with a thread on his shirt. “Always trying new things to help us learn, always talking about Carol Dweck, playing down the importance of standardized tests, so on and so forth.”

“At least someone’s paying attention.”

“I do,” Scott says, earnestly – too earnestly. “I really appreciate everything you do.”

“Hopefully, some of it will help when you’re in college.”

“I might not go.”

“Dude, you have to go,” Stiles says, forgetting himself for a moment, getting too familiar. “College is perfect for you. Studying topics because you’re genuinely interested in them? It’s like some kind of heaven for studious people like you. You love learning new things.”

Stiles chances a glance in Scott’s direction and he looks _miserable_.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to afford it.”

“Scott Manuel McCall, haven’t you ever heard of scholarships?”

Scott laughs, seemingly despite himself, nose crinkling up as he shakes his head. “My middle name is not Manuel. Frankly, it’s super offensive you’d assume it is.”

“It was in the name of comedy and it had its desired effect,” Stiles corrects. He continues making his point. “I can think of three scholarships that haven’t closed submissions yet. I’ll show you my applications, look over your drafts.”

“You do that kind of thing for all your favorite students, or just the special ones?’ Scott asks with an impish smile. 

It has Stiles’ pulse running thick and fast.

“There’s that humility again,” he says, tentatively poking a finger into Scott’s side. His tongue feels too large for his mouth and his hand hovers between them afterwards, like he doesn’t want to stop touching Scott. His hates his traitorous body. 

And he can’t deny Scott’s words, can’t lie and state he isn’t favored. He finds himself being much more honest than he ever wants to be. 

When he pulls up at Scott’s house they’ve been silent for a few minutes and tension presents in furtive glances and aborted movements. Scott takes off his seat belt and doesn’t immediately exit the car. He turns in his seat instead, looking at Stiles too closely. 

He leans in before Stiles registers it, presses a kiss to the corner of his lips. It’s gentle, but heated. There’s intent there. Stiles’ brain nearly fizzes out of his ears. It would be so easy to bridge the gap between them, so easy to drag Scott close and consume him whole. He wants to hold him and cherish him and _tarnish_ him, if only once, if only for tonight.

“You didn’t have to,” Scott says, quietly. “But you did. And I didn’t have to, but I did as well.”

“Is there a point?” Stiles asks, meaner than he wants to be, but nervous and feeling the need to shield himself, put up barriers, _protect Scott_.

“We’re each able to choose,” Scott says, measuring out the words. “I won’t force you into anything you don’t want and I don’t think you can force me into anything I don’t want either.”

“I choose to wait,” Stiles says, pressing Scott away from him with a hand that’s steadier than he thinks it would be. “I’ve got the power here, Scott, and I’m not gonna abuse it.”

Scott’s eyes stray back to his lips, but when he looks up again, he doesn’t look hurt or angry. His expression is loving. “I can live with that,” he says. He raises his eyebrows, gives a small smile. “I will live with that.” 

“Was this some kind of test? Did I pass or fail?”

“You’re a big believer in self-assessment, you tell me,” Scott says. But he ducks his head, grins at the dash. “You said wait, not ignore or avoid. Waiting has an end point.”

Stiles swallows deeply, watches as Scott gathers his things and hops out of the Jeep, fumbles with his keys as he unlocks his front door. He realizes with startling clarity that he’s a goner. He’s been warned about this countless times, and yet he’s ignored all the signs and fallen down the deep, dark well. 

And the worst part about it all is he can’t bring himself to care. All he can do is think about the moment when the wait is over.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles can’t avoid Scott, and honestly he doesn’t want to, but there’s tension between them as the months go by. It isn’t strictly a sexual tension, but that’s definitely part of it. Stiles has to be extra careful not to wander near the lacrosse field, or chaperone the two dances the school social committee decides are necessary before Prom. He has to ensure he’s never near the parking lot at the end of the school day, or within walking distance of the showers after a cross-country run, or loitering near the lockers between periods. 

So, maybe he does avoid Scott, but only out of necessity, self preservation and common decency. 

Scott doesn’t try to seduce him. He isn’t coyly flirtatious whenever Stiles lets his guard down, doesn’t deliberately tempt him by hanging back when everyone else has left, or trap him in abandoned classrooms. He’s polite, friendly, considerate, like he always has been.

It just makes Stiles want him even more.

He tries not to watch him during their lessons together, works hard at not tracking his movements down hallways and across the school campus, but sometimes he can’t resist. His eyes are drawn to Scott like the proverbial moth to a flame and at the heart of him he thinks a moment in Scott’s light would be worth incineration.

It’s Prom night that everything becomes a little unstuck. He’s gotten good at keeping a respectful amount of distance, but he’s spent a total of an hour and a half watching Scott dancing with his friends, and he’s become sweaty-palmed and tense-shouldered. 

Scott can’t dance. He has no rhythm and his clumsiness leads to him smashing into two other couples. But he’s so clearly enjoying himself, and Stiles should be ashamed, but he can’t help but wish it were with him. 

And Scott in a suit is something else; clean lines and calculated chic. Older than his years, but in the kind of way that evokes a sense of settledness rather than stodginess. Scott knows who he is, what he wants. 

He wants lots of finger foods, judging by how frequently he stops near Stiles’ standing spot throughout the night. Mini quiches and chicken nuggets disappear alongside cups of punch. Stiles doesn’t count them. (But Scott eats more than nine vol au vents.)

Stiles volunteers to help clean up the gym after Prom so he won’t spend all night wondering if Scott went off with any of his friends to do another kind of more private dance; Scott’s been touchy-feely with Mason, Erica, Isaac and Allison in equal measure and it sits, hard and low in Stiles’ gut. He knows it’s wrong for him to be feeling jealous over someone he’s essentially rejected – at least for now – but Stiles has never claimed he’s anything more lofty than petty. 

He’s tossing trash into a can outside the gym when he hears Scott’s voice call, “You guys go, I’ll catch up.” Stiles thought he’d already left, but apparently not, he wasn’t quite so lucky. He’s not going to predict that Scott hasn’t seen him standing near the trash like some kind of creeper. He can hear him walking closer.

“Hey, Mr. Stilinski,” Scott says with a casual little wave that’s an echo of one he once gave Scott in a moment of weakness. 

He wants to say, ‘Call me Stiles’, but he can’t, he won’t, that’s yet another step down the path he shouldn’t take.

“Heeeey, Mr. McCall,” he says instead, and no, that was worse, that sounded like epic flirtation. 

Scott grins at him, head tilting to the side. His bowtie is loosened and his hair is curling onto his forehead. It’s a terrible, horrible look for Stiles’ willpower. “You had a good night?”

“Policing underage drinking, listening to shitty music I already feel too old for, and remembering how sucky my own Prom was, what’s not to like?” Stiles says, settling back against the nearest wall. This is the least romantic space he can think of, so he’s staying here, safe. The only real problem is that they’re out of the line of sight from all around, tucked away in the darkness. 

“You seemed like you enjoyed yourself,” Stiles says, pointedly.

“I did!” Scott says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “There was only one thing that would’ve made it even better.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“I never got to slow-dance.”

So, it turns out Scott has a bit of the devil in him and Stiles never noticed before. He should have known. Nothing could be as pure and untainted as he’s been imagining Scott. 

“You didn’t stomp on enough toes?” Stiles asks, trying not to sound cagey and failing miserably.

“Not yet,” Scott counters with a smile. He steps closer into Stiles’ space, holds out his hands. “What d’you say?”

Stiles looks up at the cloudy sky. “There’s no music.”

Scott steps back. “All right,” he says, quietly. Like he’s been dismissed.

And that should have been the case, but Stiles has wanted to hold him all night. He quickly grasps Scott’s hands, tugs him close, until they’re in position. 

His hand is on Scott’s waist, inside his jacket and against the starch of his shirt. The heat is phenomenal, sending tingles up and down his spine. He rocks them from side to side and hums Moonlight Serenade, even though there’s no moon to be seen.

Scott’s eyes close and his tips his head forward until Stiles can’t glance at his expression anymore. The hand on Stiles’ shoulder loosens and clenches rhythmically, in time to the melody rather than the natural beat of the song. His hips sway in concert with Stiles’ most of the time, then brush up against him as if they have a mind of their own. 

Stiles can feel heat traveling over his skin, is sure in full light he’d be a pink blush. 

Stiles realizes it’s easy to ignore the scent of half-eaten h’ors d’oeuvres and week-old garbage when he’s pressed up tight against the person who occupies eighty to ninety percent of his wandering thoughts throughout a day. It’s easy to forget about responsibility and doing the right thing. Easy to wonder if he isn’t simply being masochistic in denying them what they both want.

They shuffle together, breathing the same air, sharing the same heat; propping each other up as much as they pull each other apart.

Stiles finishes the song; too soon, not soon enough. Scott moves away from him with a sorrowful look to the ground, a tensing of his jaw. 

“Sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t’ve put you in this position.”

“In your arms?” Stiles asks, softly. “There’s no place I’d rather be.”

He strokes his fingers over the backs of Scott’s, wills him to look up and see the truth of him. Scott does, eyes going round and wide – astonished – like he’s never seen anything as magical as Stiles before. Stiles appreciates it, although he knows it can’t be true. Scott must have at least one mirror in his house.

“Uh, see you,” Scott says after a moment, indicating that words had failed him up to that point. He adjusts his jacket, rubs at his neck. 

“Yeah, see you, Scott,” Stiles says, sucking in a breath to help calm his nerves. 

“Summer’s on its way,” Scott says suddenly, feet not having moved an inch. It should seem like a non sequitur, but Stiles knows exactly what he’s saying. He tamps down his urge to reply with, ‘ No, winter’s coming.’ He has some self-control.

“I’m really looking forward to long, hot, endless nights and sweaty sheets,” he says. He has a bit of the devil in him too. He smiles at Scott’s compulsive lip-biting and points toward the front of the gym. “I gotta go stack the wallflowers’ chairs.”

“Don’t work too hard.”

“Are you kidding? I do this out of love. I’m sure as hell not getting paid.”

Scott walks away with a soft huff of a laugh and Stiles watches him go. Necessity, self preservation and common decency are going to have to kick back into effect from Monday onward, but for tonight, for fewer than five minutes, Stiles got to be with Scott and he doesn’t regret it for a second.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles likes teaching. Some days he even loves it. When he actually gets to teach, his job is pretty great. He feels like he’s serving a real purpose, that he’s making a difference, that there’s hope. But there’s a lot of petty bullshit that goes along with being a teacher. The minutiae of the job can bring him down. And the final few weeks of the semester, of the school year, are a Lovecraftian nightmare. So he’s looking forward to the summer vacation for more than one nebulous, faraway reason, even if he has picked up a couple classes for summer school to make ends meet. 

He sleeps all day on the first true day of his break, getting up only to heat a couple of hot pockets and call his dad. He crawls back into bed and avoids thinking about school for as long as humanly possible. He’s wrung out. Officially at the end of his tether. He wants to crawl into a ball and not untangle until he’s so far gone he thinks he’s rubber.

The second day is more productive. He goes grocery shopping for the first time in three weeks; having subsisted mostly on powdered milk, take out and frozen food. He takes out his trash and cleans his dishes, starts a load of laundry and spends an hour or so sorting his digital resources. In what will really only feel like a few days’ time he’s back in the classroom, so he gets things in order now so he can fuck around later. 

The third day, he’s checking his mail when there’s a quiet cough that arrests his attention.

“Hey,” Scott says, wearing a leather jacket and sunglasses, a helmet hanging from his hand.

He looks devastating. Stiles is unable to keep his jaw from dropping, literally, mouth going wide open at the mere sight of Scott. He wants to run his hands through his mussed-up helmet hair, wants to strip him of all clothes except the jacket, wants to forget about dignity and ride him.

“So, this is only a suggestion, and I don’t want you to think I’m gonna be offended if you say no, but I wanted to know if you might wanna come for a ride with me?”

Stiles glances at the bike, then at Scott, then the bike again. He’s weighing up the pros and cons in his head. The longer he deliberates, the more likely it is one of his nosy neighbors will notice Scott and he doesn’t want that – can’t have done almost everything right just to have it all snatched away. 

This is still a gray area. 

He’s pretty colorblind at the moment. _Everything_ looks like a gray area.

“Where to?”

Scott gives a rueful bow of his head. “I honestly hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”

Stiles taps out a rhythm against his thigh, bites his inner cheek. It’s false contemplation. Truthfully, he made his mind up the second he saw Scott. “Okay, I’m in.”

“Because, or despite?” Scott asks, as he hands the extra helmet over. 

“Sorry?”

“Because I haven’t got a plan, or despite the fact I don’t?”

Stiles can’t stop a grin from spreading. “I guess because.“

Scott sits on his bike, signals he’s ready for Stiles to climb on. “That’s not a very comprehensive answer.”

“Well, I am used to being the one asking the difficult questions,” Stiles replies, teasingly. 

His heart’s in his throat as he goes on the back of the bike, hands winding around Scott’s middle. This isn’t the smartest thing he’s ever done, but he’s spent almost his entire life in school, following at least a few of the rules, certainly jumping at the sound of a bell, and honestly he wants to _live_ a little.

He clashes helmets with Scott as soon as the bike sets off, isn’t prepared for the sudden lurch. But he learns how to distribute his weight properly eventually, eases into the movement. The bike thrums under him and he can’t lie, it does things that he’s never gotten to experience before. His adrenaline is off the charts. 

He wouldn’t say he enjoys the ride. He’s too keyed up for that. Too tense, too terrified of accidentally letting go and crashing to the ground. He can’t deny it’s exciting, though. Thrilling. His nerves set alight and his heart thundering. 

They ride for maybe half an hour, in the backstreets of Beacon Hills toward the Preserve he used to go trampling around as a teen, deliberately veering off the beaten path. There’s a lake there he always wanted to be brave enough to go skinny dipping in, an old abandoned house that’s used for overnight scare-dares and the occasional homeless refuge. It’s a little too gothic to be the lovers lane of Beacon Hills, but it usually isn’t completely isolated. 

There are two cars in the parking lot, but Stiles doesn’t recognize them. He wonders what he could say if he encounters people they know. Extra credit field trip? Coincidental meeting?

But Scott is grinning at him, stripping off his gloves and leather jacket, and his mind blanks. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters more than getting to spend time with Scott. 

“I used to come here all the time when I first came to Beacon Hills,” Scott says. “Commune with nature.”

“We’re five minutes away from an IHOP.”

“Okay, sure, but there are actual trees here that aren’t masking streetlights or secretly harboring electrical boxes, so you know, nature.”

Stiles gestures to one of the hiking trails. “Let’s get up close and personal.” 

He kicks himself a second later. That wasn’t smooth. Luckily, Scott either didn’t notice, or doesn’t mind.

“You’ve lived here your whole life, haven’t you?” Scott asks as they’re following the trail.

“Apart from college, yeah.”

“What made you decide to come back?”

Stiles half-shrugs. “My dad had some heart issues and I knew he needed constant monitoring or we’d have a death by bacon situation. That was too Alanis Morissette-style ironic for me.”

At Scott’s blank look, Stiles smiles, grimly. “My dad’s the sheriff. So, yeah, I’ve come back and I actually really like it. My job’s hectic enough that I don’t mind that nothing ever happens here, and like you pointed out earlier, I can commune with nature. I don’t, very often, but I _can_.”

“My mom doesn’t understand why I wanna stay.”

“You’re still saying that? We wrote all those scholarship applications. You’re not telling me you were rejected from every single thing we applied for? There were so many applications. So many.”

“I wasn’t. I’ve gotten a scholarship. I’ve gotten a couple, actually. It’s not that I’m not planning on going to college. I’m gonna commute.”

“You won’t get the full college experience.”

“I don’t want the full college experience. I like it here. I feel like I have a home for the first time in my life. I don’t wanna throw that away just because it’s the conventional thing to do. Berkeley isn’t far.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. It’s at least an hour and a half there, on good days. “Three hours on a bike every day sounds rough.”

Scott huffs out a laugh. “I’m gonna buy a car. You know I’m not a complete moron.”

“I guess that’s not the worst plan I’ve ever heard,” Stiles concedes, not as grudgingly as he knows he should sound.

He wants Scott nearby. Wants to be _able_ to see him every day, even if he doesn’t. Just knowing he’ll be close settles something in his stomach he hadn’t even realized was loose. 

They walk under the canopy of the trees, hands brushing idly. Electricity surges up Stiles’ spine and he edges closer, liking the contact. They end up at the lake, sitting on a log, watching ripples in the water. Sometimes, Stiles finds silence deafening, but not with Scott. They sit in companionable silence, a breeze blowing around them.

“Remember when we met?” Scott asks eventually, fiddling with a pebble he picked up. 

“It was less than a year ago, so yeah, my aging brain can recall.”

“I thought you were a student. I was ten seconds away from offering you my seat. Then you started telling us all to settle down and I thought you were joking for at least a minute.”

“If it’s any consolation, Mr. Duncan still seems to think I’m a student and we’ve been teaching alongside each other for two years now.”

“I was so angry, for weeks,” Scott says, ducking his head and frowning at the ground. 

“You were? You didn’t seem it.”

“You learn not to show aggression when your dad’s got his own anger issues,” Scott says offhandedly. “But I was so mad. And I think the worst thing is that you were kind.”

Stiles snorts. “I’m not that nice.”

“I never said nice. I said kind. There’s an important, but obvious distinction. I mean, yeah, you’re way more mocking than you probably should be, and you give the worst pop quizzes, but you always make time for your students to talk with you, you never treated us like we were interchangeable, disposable statistics.”

“I was doing my job,” Stiles says, gentler than he’d ordinarily be.

“You never made it seem like that, though.”

“Why’re you telling me this, Scott?”

“Because I want you to understand that it’s not just because I think you’re hot, or the illicit thrill of seducing a teacher. I don’t wanna repeat the word ‘really’ six times for you to get how much I like you.”

Stiles’ mouth opens up on a laugh. “Thanks, Carly Rae.” He looks up at Scott again, nudges into him softly. “I like you too. Like, really…”

“Don’t,” Scott interrupts. 

“I was angry you were a student,” Stiles admits. 

“But I’m not now,” Scott points out, glancing at Stiles’ lips. Stiles wets them, deliberately teasing.

“No.”

“And we’re pretty alone out here.”

“Yeah.”

“You could kiss me, if you want?”

“We could kiss each other, if you think that’s a good idea,” Stiles confirms, wanting Scott to be the one in control, for this at least. Scott had worried about Stiles thinking he was only in it for the illicit thrill of seducing a teacher, but that was never going to be an issue. 

They lean closer, bodies angled toward each other, eyes trained on lips. Scott brings a hand up until he’s cradling the back of Stiles’ head, brushing a thumb against the nape of his neck. 

The kiss is sweet, soft and chaste, with the promise of more. Stiles wants it to consume him. He moans against Scott’s mouth, embarrassingly turned on by such a simple touch.

“Wow,” Scott says when he pulls away. “That was –”

“It was, wasn’t it,” Stiles agrees. 

Scott kisses him again, quick and tender, and Stiles loses himself in it, in the feel of Scott’s warmth, the brush of his soft skin. There’s the crunch of leaves under their feet, a swirl of wind pushing up against his shirt, but all he can focus on is Scott against him. 

They stop kissing after a while and Scott helps Stiles up from the log with a bright, sunny smile and a flirtatious offering of his hand. Stiles takes it, thinking about all the things he wants to do with Scott; all the things he wants to teach him, all the things he wants to learn. 

“Um, I just realized – what should I call you?” Scott asks, pink blush making his eyes look darker. 

“Maybe,” Stiles says, grinning at Scott’s epic eye-roll. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist. My first name is unpronounceable, so I go by Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Scott says, like it’s something precious, something hard won. He shakes the hand he’s holding, strokes the fingers softly. “Nice to meet you, Stiles.”

Stiles wants to _ravish_ him.


	4. Chapter 4

They spend more time together as the days go by, meeting up in different places around town in an attempt to be covert. Stiles’ nosy neighbors have been watching him like a hawk. 

Stiles feels like a little kid again, sneaking around behind his dad’s back to hide all the good snacks or listen to the police scanner. It’s kind of sick how much he enjoys it, how happy he is that they’re sharing this secret, that it’s them against the world. At some point, he knows, he’s going to tire of the secrecy. He’ll get annoyed by all their workarounds and compromises, the lies they have to tell. Stiles has canceled dinner with his dad and told his friend Boyd he’s teaching classes online in order to avoid watching the game with him twice. But for now? At the moment? He likes it. He likes it a _lot_. There’s something about the knowledge that Scott is only for him that has his heart skipping to a new rhythm.

His blood surges thicker in his veins when he has Scott pressed up against him in the dark depths of the single independent theater that’s still playing movies that stopped showing months ago most everywhere else. They’re alone apart from an old dude near the screen whose shoulder moves suspiciously rapidly up and down. Stiles is under no illusion as to what’s going on there, but figures he shouldn’t judge.

They’ve lifted the arm rest and Scott’s straddling one of Stiles’ thighs, grinding down into him with little rolls of his hips that make their kisses ever filthier. Stiles presses his thumb near Scott’s mouth to get him to open wider, so he can deepen the kiss. Scott’s an accomplished kisser; attentive and patient in ways Stiles has never been. Kissing’s usually only ever been a prelude for Stiles before, a minor step toward the actions he wants to be taking. But kissing Scott is its own reward, and even though he wants to do other things eventually, they haven’t yet and he’s all right with that. Scott in his arms and against his lips is all he needs.

Scott bites at his lower lip occasionally; not hard, but deliberate, teasing. Stiles can never stop himself from moaning when he does, from tightening his hold on his hips or pushing him closer. Scott rocks into him and when he pulls away for a deep breath his eyes are shocky and wide. It fills Stiles with gratification to know he’s the cause of that look of wonder. He’s always enjoyed watching Scott discover something new to him and this is no exception.

“You okay?” he asks, rubbing his hands over the sides of Scott’s thighs.

“Yeah,” Scott says, smiling. “I’m good. This is… everything.”

“ _Yeah_ , it is,” Stiles replies, fumbling kisses over Scott’s neck and collarbones.

He should be showing more restraint, but he can’t seem to make himself. He brushes his fingers up under Scott’s shirt, kneading gently into his soft, warm skin. Scott moans, lower than usual, and Stiles knows he’s about three minutes away from coming in his pants. He breaks the kiss again, swallows thickly as he stares at Scott in the glow from the screen, the dark arc of his eyelashes, the play of light throwing his features into relief.

It suddenly goes black and then the credits are rolling. Scott starts to chuckle, swinging off Stiles’ leg and rocking back into his seat.

“I can’t believe it’s over,” Stiles says, because it’s true. He watched maybe fifteen minutes of the movie and he can’t even remember most of them, because he was concentrating too hard on Scott’s body heat and breathing beside him, predicting when his chest would rise next.

And he always falls like this, so far he can’t measure accurately. So hard he’s bruised up inside, blood pooling in places he never knew existed.

“That was the best movie I’ve seen this year,” Scott jokes, dorkily. Stiles wants to kiss him again, set his hands on him and never let go.

“I liked it enough to want to see it again.”

“That’s not exactly effusive praise,” Scott grumbles.

“It takes a lot to stop me from being understated.”

Scott laughs, tapping Stiles across his chest harder than he expected. “That’s such a lie. Is there such a thing as being overstated? Because that is you.”

“There is, but I think more people say exaggerated.”

“Mmm, sounds right.”

Stiles doesn’t want to leave the theater, but the credits are almost over and even Old Mr. McFapperson has gone on his way, so he stands up, shakes out his wrinkled clothes.

“Listen. I didn’t ask you out today so you could insult me.”

Scott joins him, rearranging his shirts. “You didn’t ask me out at all. I asked you.”

There’s a deeper point there about how Scott has been the one to arrange most of their meet-ups, and though initially Stiles wanted it that way so he didn’t feel like he was crowding Scott or expecting too much from him, he thinks it’s been long enough now that he should step up.

“Wanna grab dinner with me?” he asks, wondering why he sounds nervous after all the things they’ve already done together.

“Yeah,” Scott says, face lighting up with a smile. “And I know just the place.”

*

The place he’s talking about is his house. It’s a good-sized two-storey building in one of the nicer streets. The kind of place Stiles imagined him having – well-kept, but not ostentatious.

Stiles raises an eyebrow at Scott. “Are you about to explain your parents aren’t coming home?”

“I absolutely am,” Scott confirms with a grin. “Mom’s on nightshift. Dad left us years ago.”

Stiles rubs at his forehead, laughs quietly to himself. Most of the time he can pretend Scott’s the same age as him, trick himself into thinking they’re hiding their relationship because of Montague versus Capulet reasons rather than the shadiness of the real situation. It isn’t the kind of pretense that has him truly believing, but it’s the kind that settles his squirming stomach.

However, this, this realization that Scott’s still young enough his mom probably does his laundry for him, rather than him choosing to let it pile up for two months before finally biting the bullet. The clear evidence that Stiles has moved past this stage in his life, does terrible, awful things to him.

It shows him he’s not as noble and upstanding as he’s been kidding himself, because there’s part of him that enjoys this.

Scott’s pulling tupperware out of his fridge, setting it up on the counter. “Left-overs okay?”

“If this were my house I’d say it’s the worst kind of health hazard, but I’m guessing we’re safe here.”

Scott snorts. “You keep guessing that.”

They eat chatting about everything and nothing, then snuggle up together on the couch and watch television. There’s tension between them, but the good kind, the kind that fizzes with hope and promise rather than a rift. And they don’t talk about it, but they don’t get as hot and heavy as they did in the theater. They remain close, but composed, friendly and not feverish. Stiles thinks maybe Scott had been psyching himself up for them to take their relationship to the next level, but had discovered he’s happier waiting. He glances at Stiles sometimes with a watchful kind of inquisition, trying to judge his reaction to the inaction. Stiles watches back, wondering how he can convey his willingness to be patient and his desire to take this further.

Stiles kisses Scott goodnight reverently, reluctantly, cradling the back of his head. He loves the slide of Scott’s fingers over his sides, the way Scott opens up for his kisses and then dives forward and demands Stiles accommodate him. He isn’t pushy, but he isn’t meek, so their kisses are comforting as well as exciting, and Stiles hasn’t had that before.

“I’ll swing by early on Thursday,” he reminds Scott, more to keep lingering close than because he thinks he’d forget.

“And you still won’t tell me where we’re going?”

“Nope. It’s a surprise.”

Scott twists his hands in Stiles’ shirt, drags him close. “But what if I’m not adequately prepared?”

“I’ll have all the preparations in place.”

Scott twists his lips in faux exasperation. “See you Thursday.”

“Don’t work too hard in the meantime. Conserve your energy,” Stiles teases, nudging another affectionate kiss against Scott’s lips.

“Don’t relax too much,” Scott retorts. “Wouldn’t want you to melt into a puddle of goo.”

There are things Stiles could say there that he’s going to self-censor.

*

Stiles has never liked the beach himself, but Scott once spoke for an hour and a half about a trip he took with his mom when he was thirteen, about the crystalline gleam of the sea and the salty-fresh smell of the air. Scott loves it, Stiles can tell, so he’ll put up with fine grit sand and attacking marine life if it puts that joy back onto his face.

He’s gotten provisions organized – food, water, sunscreen, towels. He’s even gotten swimming shorts ready for them both, guessing Scott’s size to be roughly the same as his with thoughts that went on to muse about how they feel under his hands. Before he knows it, he’s pulling up to the McCall’s house at 6 am in a rental truck, full tank of gas and full heart of anticipation.

Scott’s sitting on the porch with a backpack, his thumbs flying over his phone. He glances up when Stiles puts the truck into park, his previously furrowed brow evening out.

Scott successfully guesses their destination a two thirds of the way into the trip, after a lot of interrogating and withholding of snacks. The happiness he exudes is unparalleled. When they stop on the beachfront he hauls Stiles into a tight hold and kisses him senseless before dashing off for the water’s edge. Stiles is left to bring their things, a backpack slung on each arm and a bottle of water dangling from his hand.

And Scott’s always seemed mature beyond his years – like he’s had to grow up quickly, be responsible for himself and others in ways most teenagers actively avoid – but like this he’s heart-warmingly innocent. The beach is filled with half-naked men and women, and Stiles only has eyes for Scott.

“How did you know I’d love this?” Scott asks, a breeze whipping his hair into disarray and sunshine making his skin glow golden.

“You told me.”

“Months ago.”

“I remembered.”

“You’re too good for me,” Scott says, more earnest than jokingly cliché.

Stiles is horribly aware he’s really, really not.


	5. Chapter 5

The sky is pinks, purples, oranges and deep, endless blues. It’s a spectacle, awesome in the original intention of the word – like something to be feared, something that makes you feel your insignificance. Stiles is sticky, gritty, and exhausted to his bones. He can feel his skin itching with a burn, though Scott smeared him with sunblock every two hours. Even Scott looks a little pink across the expanse of his upper back, the bridge of his nose. Scott’s resting between his legs, head tipped back onto his torso, hands holding onto his knees. They spent the day swimming, burying each other in the sand, and walking together hand-in-hand. Such simple pleasures, but it’s one of the best days of his life.

Which is good, because he thinks it has to be one of his last with Scott.

Stiles is self-knowing. He’s aware of his strengths and his weaknesses, his uplifting moments and his downfalls. He knows when he’s being morally questionable, can even predict what the answers would be. He cares for Scott, admires and respects him, so he’s going to let him go. And maybe they’ll find each other again, when Scott’s older.

Or maybe not, because he’ll also be wiser.

“We gotta go home, yeah?” Scott murmurs as the sun dips below the horizon.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs back. He lands a kiss on Scott’s neck, then another on the top of his shoulder. He doesn’t want to stop, has never actually been good at the self-denial aspect of awareness. Scott’s skin tastes of salt-spray and sunscreen. It stings his tongue and leaves a bitter, tannic aftertaste, but Stiles ignores that for a while.

“Thank you,” Scott says as they’re packing the truck, Stiles doing his best to shake sand off everything before it goes into the back. There’s a note of finality to it, like he knows, he’s sensed that this is it for them.

They’re quiet on the drive to Beacon Hills, the radio set to an oldies station and Stiles concentrating on the road. He’s happy for the reprieve from the echoing thoughts rushing constantly through his mind, the way everything’s gotten washed out and faded behind street signs and flashing lights. When he was a student, he’d sometimes get enthralled in hours of hyper focus, unable to attend to everything because he was obsessed with only one thing. He’s worked on managing that as the years have gone by, but he’s grateful for it now. He can concentrate on the speed limit, keeping a safe distance from other cars, checking his mirrors – and not watching the boy sitting in the passenger seat.

Scott hops out of the car at the end of his street, his backpack slipping down his arm. He waves; not in an imitation of Stiles this time, but his own, careful movement – the kind of grace he only shows sometimes, when he isn’t thinking about it. Stiles smiles in return, before swiftly diverting his gaze so he’s facing the road ahead.

*

Stiles went to summer school one year for Chemistry because his teacher at the time was an epic dick, so even though the syllabus is rigid, he tries to inject his lessons with as much fun as physically and mentally possible. The way he figures, if these kids haven’t learned what they need to the conventional way, unconventional isn’t going to hurt. Plus, it gives him a good distraction. A great excuse. He puts all his attention into engaging lessons and none into the shitshow that is his life.

Scott’s texted him several times. Casual. Affectionate. Increasingly worried. Stiles hasn’t replied. He’s a coward. He thinks maybe he operates on two approaches to truth: harsh, blunt honesty, or mass avoidance.

He’d almost forgotten what it was like to spend the day talking, to inject enthusiasm and purpose into every word and movement. At the same time, it’s like he never left. He empathizes with his students and their closed-off stares, the way a flicker of hope sparks in their eyes when they look out the window and then extinguishes when he begins to speak. He takes them outside and they talk about the requirements and criteria for success in the blaze of the sun. Suddenly, his students don’t seem as stressed and apathetic about learning when they’re not being treated like caged animals.

He’s dead tired after his first week of teaching classes. He flops onto his bed and waits for sleep to claim him.

But, of course, there’s a knock at his door. He’s sleepy enough to forget to be wary, and it’s not like he could pretend he isn’t home anyway; his Jeep is in the driveway.

“Hi,” Scott says, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He launches forward, into the space between Stiles and his front door. “I’m coming in.” It’s such an uncharacteristic move, Stiles doesn’t question it. He closes the door behind Scott and follows him into his living room.

“You look relatively alive,” Scott comments when Stiles leans against the door jamb.

“Relatively,” Stiles echoes, hating how amused he is by Scott, especially in the face of his obvious anger. This isn’t the time for fondness, not the right moment to want to hold him tight.

“So, you …” Scott starts, frowning. He stops, takes a deep breath, hunches his shoulders. It’s like he had a whole speech prepared, but he’s changed his mind. “What happened?”

“I realized that sometimes liking someone isn’t enough.”

“You weren’t gonna share that wisdom with anyone else?”

“I was kinda hoping anyone else would get the message from my silence.”

Scott rears back like he’s been slapped. “Okay, I’m confused. How did you come to this startling revelation? Last we saw each other, we had a good time, didn’t we? I recall a lot of kissing, and hand-holding, and gazing into each other’s eyes.”

“I wanted you to have one good memory of me,” Stiles confesses. Harsh, blunt honesty, every time.

Scott’s expression clouds and his voice goes soft and inquisitive. “Is it because I’m a virgin?”

Stiles nearly chokes. It makes sense, but it hadn’t occurred to him. Someone needs to tell that dark, nasty part of him inside there’s no such thing as defiling or ruining someone for anyone else, and if there were it sure as hell shouldn’t make him hot. Being Scott’s first would mean simultaneously nothing and everything and he’s not sure how to handle that. He’s not equipped for the twists and turns his body’s knotting him into.

“I didn’t know you were, but it would be a contributing factor,” he replies, finally, tone dismissive. Scott stands his ground, doesn’t leave immediately like Stiles hoped. If he pushes his hardest, perhaps Scott will see he’s not worth any pain.

“What, you don’t have any patience?”

“I don’t think either of us should have to be patient,” Stiles says. He wants to go back to bed, bury himself under his covers. He wants to never have met Scott, to have developed these feelings. He was warned about this and he never heeded it, always ignored the danger signs. “Look, I know I don’t seem overly mature. This is – this whole thing is proof positive that I’m still learning. But I am older than you. I’m still the responsible one in this relationship. I kidded myself into thinking that if I gave you space to be the aggressor, I was giving you agency. But it doesn’t work like that.”

“You weren’t going to treat me with common courtesy and let me down gently, though,” Scott says, colder than Stiles has ever heard him. “Weren’t gonna trust me enough to understand.”

“No, because you don’t see the problem.”

“You think I was blind to the possibility of you being a creep?” Scott asks with a huff of breath. “Think I let my infatuation lead me into giving you unlimited power over me? I made a choice to trust you. I gave you a chance. I decided you were worth it.”

“You made the wrong choice, Scotty.”

“Obviously.” Scott draws himself up, stands tall. “One good memory, huh? Shame you had to taint it by acting like the child you claim I am.”

“I never said you were a child,” Stiles says, before he can stop himself.

“If you didn’t think it, you wouldn’t’ve treated me like one,” Scott retorts. “You’d talk to me, like I could be reasonable. Like I could think with something other than my dick. You’d respect me.”

“I –”

“Don’t.” Scott cuts him off. “It’s all right. Have fun teaching, Stiles. Hope it makes you feel like you’re a good person doing good deeds.”

Stiles has nothing to say in response.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles tries not to think about it, but that’s never been his forte. He’s an anxiety-ridden, paranoid sort of guy. He thinks about his fuck-ups in 4k and 7.1 surround sound. He goes over everything he said, everything he did, every moment he was a fool and he replays it until the words go slow as they reverberate, until the colors are so bright in his mind they’re blinding, and he stares at his ceiling every night wanting blessed blackness to return.

And he misses Scott. He figures he should’ve realized, since he’s basically seen him every work day for a year, but, God, how he misses him. Not even his smile or his eyes or his body – all easy to explain sexual aspects that only further prove Stiles is a horrible, good for nothing letch – but his presence. His wit, his wisdom. How conscientious and kind Scott is. How he’s always trying to help someone. How he’s slowly gaining a confidence that matches his strength.

Stiles thinks Scott might be the best person he’s ever met, not counting his parents, and the thought startles him so much he drops the book he was holding and swears so loudly the next time he’s in his yard his neighbor Ingrid frowns at him and reminds him of her paper-thin walls.

So it’s tough, when he sees Scott around town. It hurts to see him from afar and know he can’t go and talk to him, know he doesn’t deserve his time. That bridge is burned, ashes in the wind. He doesn’t go out of his way to encounter Scott. It isn’t like he stalks him. Wouldn’t even know where to start, honestly. Plus, he’s too busy with school, too firm in his resolve. But when they do accidentally cross paths, he can’t stop himself from watching him like a creeper, and once or twice Scott will look up and gaze at him, expression unreadable.

Stiles is trapped in a hell of his own making and the worst thing is that he’s aware of it.

The problem is, what he said to Scott is true – sometimes liking someone isn’t enough. Hell, sometimes loving someone isn’t enough, and Stiles has been thinking that way too often for his personal sense of comfort. Sometimes context matters. Times, places, ages. They have weight. Though Scott has rightfully pointed out he has the maturity of a sixth grader, Stiles is still technically mature. He should have spoken to Scott, shouldn’t have run away with his tail between his legs, he knew that at the time, but he doesn’t actually regret breaking off their tentative beginnings.

Yes he does. Of course he does. But he recognizes it was the correct course of action.

Stiles goes about his daily routine in a kind of haze. Plan this. Teach that. Mark then. Sleep there. There’s something to be said for the monotony of routine. It settles his nerves and has him slipping into old coping mechanisms. He rewatches the _Star Wars_ films twice in preparation for _The Force Awakens_ , starts working out more frequently to counterbalance his increase in consuming huge amounts of junk food, hangs out at his dad’s as a distraction – to both his dad and himself, if he’s being honest.

“You’re pining,” his dad says astutely, one day, frowning at him. Stiles hates his detective skills. He’s spent the last two hours discussing the Mets. How has his dad seen through that passion and vehemence to the loneliness inside? “Who for?”

“Some guy,” Stiles says with a shrug, the pit in his stomach deepening over treating his memory of Scott with such disrespect.

“He not interested?” his dad asks, always good at getting to the crux of a matter, at providing pointed interrogations.

Stiles crosses his arms across his chest and doesn’t successfully stop a sigh from escaping his mouth. “Not anymore.”

“I’m guessing this is a complicated story.”

“How can you tell?”

“The fact you haven’t told me yet. Your body language. The tone of your voice. Your face.”

“They don’t hand those sheriffs badges out in cereal boxes, do they?”

His dad stares at him flatly, then gives him some weird, contorted look of sympathy. “You want a hug?”

Stiles is burrowing under his dad’s arm before he even finishes the offer. “I messed up,” he confesses, muffled, because his chin and cheek are resting against his dad’s shoulder.

“You can’t apologize?”

“I can, but it won’t make much difference. Not for any reason but assuaging my guilt, thinking I’ve been forgiven. I mean, it will in some ways, maybe, in the long-term, but I kinda deserve this pain I’m in, you know?”

“Sounds like a pretty big fuck-up,” his dad states, tightening his arm around him.

Stiles huffs out a laugh, settles back against the couch. “Yeah.”

“Were your intentions noble, at least?” his dad asks, because that’s mostly all he’s ever asked of Stiles – through all his teenaged foolishness and indiscretions. Did he mean to do the right thing, in the beginning?

“Nope, they were terrible,” Stiles admits, wincing. Better to be truthful to his dad, even if he hasn’t entirely been truthful to himself.

“I don’t want to know any more about this, do I?”

“No, Sir, you do not.”

“I’m gonna grab us both another beer.”

Stiles sleeps a little easier that night, even though what he told his dad wasn’t even an eighth of a confession. He suspects his dad has some inkling as to the truth. He always has done in the past. It’s why he didn’t keep asking questions. He probably didn’t want to be even more disappointed in Stiles than he already is.

Which might be unfair. His dad doesn’t seem hugely disappointed in him now that he’s over his rebellious cop’s son stage. Now that he’s gotten a stable job, that, sure, isn’t law enforcement, but consequently isn’t endangering his life every day either.

Stiles wakes up with his shoulders feeling looser and his chest less tight.

This could be why everything goes to hell within thirty minutes of leaving his home. This was supposed to be a day away from work, a day filled with innocuous chores. And instead it is a day of frantic driving to the nearest vet’s office with a pitifully mewling bundle of fur resting on an old hoodie in the front seat of his Jeep. He has no idea how the tiny thing is still alive, has a horrible feeling it won’t be very soon, and he thinks he’s going to vomit.

He pulls up to the clinic with his breathing going shaky, his eyes stinging. He runs into the foyer and calls for help. He’s being over-dramatic, but he really doesn’t want the kitten to die without him having at least attempted to save its life.

He doesn’t realize who’s followed him out to his Jeep until he’s flung his car door open and there’s a soft, familiar murmuring. His heart stops in his throat as he stares at a mop of brown wavy hair, a profile that’s become dear to him.

Scott peers at the kitten, examining carefully, not jostling it or making sudden movements. “Dr. Deaton’s making a house call,” he says when he notices Stiles staring at him in shock. He squares his shoulders like he’s trying to puff himself up, appear authoritative. Stiles is still too panicked to assure him he doesn’t have to. “I’ve assisted him with traffic accident victims before.”

“I – thank you,” Stiles says, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

“Help me?” Scott asks, starting to lift the edges of the old hoodie. Stiles does his best to hold up the other sides, until the kitten’s being transported in a miniature hammock. It’s stopped crying. Stiles doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or a bad one.

Scott’s methodical and focused as he arranges the kitten on a sterile clinic table, softly, gently, touching its body. He looks so professional, so competent, Stiles can’t help but admire him, even as he worries. Minutes go by and Stiles bites at his thumbnail, leg jittering, feet itching to pace. At about the six minute mark, the kitten starts to purr and bat at Scott’s fingers, and Scott shakes his head with a smile.

“Seems like this little dude’s gotten a lucky break,” he murmurs. He looks up at Stiles with his lips still curved. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and trust you didn’t run over a kitten just to see me.”

Stiles is _flummoxed_.

He rocks back on his heels, hastily pulls his thumb from his mouth. “I would’ve gone for something more spectacular. A deer, or mountain lion,” he says, layering terror, guilt and discomfort with false bravado and gallows humor. Scott stares at him with an incredulity that feels forced.

“Is he yours?”

“No. He darted out behind the Jeep as I was backing out of my driveway. I saw what looked like a tribble flash in my rear-view mirror, slammed on the brakes. I didn’t run over him, I don’t think, which would be why he only seems to have lost one of his nine lives.”

The kitten leaps up toward Stiles as if proving his point, meowing the world’s loudest meow.

“I think he was more startled than anything else,” Scott agrees, petting the kitten with calm, self-assured strokes. “But I should keep him in overnight, just in case.”

“There’s no collar,” Stiles provides, lamely. “Don’t think anyone will miss him.”

Scott hums in agreement.

“So, how’ve you been?” Stiles asks, because he’s here, now, it feels ruder not to ask. The air around them is still, cold.

“Busy. You?”

“The same.”

Scott stares at him like he knows that’s edging close to a lie, but doesn’t state it out loud. Instead he looks down, fusses with the kitten, that soft smile from earlier returning to wreck Stiles’ heart nine times over.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Seriously, this kind of thing happens all the time. It’s how I met my friend Allison,” Scott says, raising a shoulder. “I won’t charge you, if you’re worried about the bill. We have several empty cages and a light workload this week.”

“I’m not apologizing for the imposition,” Stiles corrects. “Though I should have, so sorry for that too. I meant –” he gestures, vaguely, between them. As if a hand-movement could encompass all the water that was once under that scorched bridge.

“Oh,” Scott says, almost a gasp. He looks at Stiles again, eyes wide. “Okay. I accept your apology.”

“That’s not why I gave it, you didn’t have to. But thanks. Forgiveness feels surprisingly good.”

“Hey, I never said I forgave you. I accepted that you admitted your wrongdoing. That doesn’t mean my attitude toward your shitty behavior’s changed, or that I wish you well.”

It’s Stiles’ turn to stare. He’s about to mount some kind of defense, before Scott’s grinning at him, biting at his lower lip in a manner that should be rendered illegal.

“Fuck you too,” Stiles retorts, with a laugh that feels too big for his body.

Scott makes a slow clicking sound. “We never got that far.”

Stiles hates how much he wants to reach out and take back everything he’s said in that moment, how hard he wishes the circumstances and context were different. He buries the inclination deep inside, quashes it with every last scrap of strength he has. He thinks about maybes and what ifs and almosts and paths that won’t be taken.

“I have to go. Thanks again, Scott.”

“See you,” Scott says, tenderly, like he wants to say something else. Stiles is at the door when he finally does. “I’m sorry too,” he says. Stiles opens his mouth to retort, but Scott barrels on. “Not because I did anything wrong, because I know I didn’t. But I think we could’ve had something special and it doesn’t seem fair that we can’t.”

Stiles nearly doesn’t push through the door. Has a protracted moment where he wants to spin on his heel, surge close to Scott, and lay waste to his convictions.

But he nods, once, and leaves the clinic with an ache in his bones and his fingernails digging into his palms.


	7. Chapter 7

Two weeks go by and Stiles tries to pretend he isn’t thinking about Scott every minute, but he’s never been good at that kind of deceit. It doesn’t help that Scott sends him a text one morning with the kitten curled up on his chest and the caption ‘fuzzbuzz mccall cruisin 4 a snoozin’. He attempts to delete the text, and Scott’s contact, but he can’t. He texts back a question about the kitten becoming a member of Scott’s family and Scott replies that he’s the son he always wanted. Stiles spends about a minute groaning, his face smushed into his pillow. 

Summer vacation is drawing to a close. He has a week off work until he’s expected back for new school year planning days. His summer school students have progressed. Some have even excelled. It’s good, knowing he has some worth, having the tangible proof he can do some good. He’s glad he worked this summer. He hates to think how unbearable it might’ve been if he’d had nothing else to occupy his thoughts. Also, he now has some money in his savings account that he’s determined not to use in pursuit of fixing up his Jeep for the nine billionth time. 

He’s about to text Scott a picture of the fluffiest dog to ever exist, almost absent-minded about it, when he has the revelation that maybe the reason he’s so sore over this situation, maybe the reason it’s arisen in the first place, is because he has virtually no friends. He has acquaintances – a lot of them. And he has his dad, who’s his best friend. He has Boyd, who is currently freezing his ass off in Canada. But that’s about it, these days. He doesn’t have a group of people he hangs out with to watch the game, or scam during a game of poker, or go with to the local diner. There’s no one else he can think of who’d appreciate this dog’s tiny, stumpy tail. No one else who wouldn’t send him question marks wondering why he was contacting them for the first time in forever. Scott’s the first person he’s made a strong connection with in a long time. It’s pretty depressing, as epiphanies go. That it took this long for him to realize it is perhaps even more damning. 

It gives him a course of action. Sets out a plan. He has to find a way to restore old friendships and forge new ones. He can do that. It’s not beyond the realm of possibility. 

He starts by talking to his high school girlfriend Lydia over facebook one day. She doesn’t live near Beacon Hills anymore, but long-distance friendships aren’t to be snubbed. She’s doing well as a mathematician, on her way to proving or disproving some stuffy old guy’s theorem (Stiles might’ve lost track of the thread of conversation.) Talking to someone who knows him well – who remembers who he used to be – is comforting in ways he’d never thought of before. 

Next, he signs up for a photography class, because he’s always been interested in developing his photography skills, and he figures it’s a good way to meet new people. He forces himself to be extra outgoing and open, to appear interesting and fascinated. He’s never really been shy, so it isn’t a hardship. It’s more that he’d forgotten that friendship takes effort. 

The class is a diverse mix of age groups and personalities, but he finds himself chatting with a guy roughly his age most of the first session. He only learns that Jordan works with his dad at the end of the night. 

Well, Beacon Hills _is_ a small town. He supposes it’s to be expected. 

When he goes back to work, Stiles interacts more with the other teachers, not allowing the way they treat him as one of the students to interfere with his mission of befriending them. He sets up Friday night drinks at the local bar, frequently finds himself in a corner talking about philosophy and classical literature with Mr. Duncan, whose first name turns out to be as unpronounceable as Stiles’, and that’s why he always goes by his last.

He isn’t interested in any of his students beyond the fact they’re his students. This shouldn’t settle him so much, but it does.

And it’s going okay. He’s spending time with other people, he’s doing more with his life than working, he’s sharing himself with the world and actively seeking new perspectives, differing points of view. 

He continues to miss Scott terribly. He gets a zing of joy at a text. Spends hours carefully crafting his responses. Stops himself from sending Scott everything and anything he sees that he thinks would be of interest, but still texts Scott semi-frequently. He waits for Scott’s texts with his heart in his throat. He has all of these new connections, all of these new friends, and none of them compare to Scott.

He can’t resist asking about Berkeley. He knows the best thing he could do would be to let Scott get wrapped up in college and new experiences, new friends himself, but he’s _curious_. It seems to be going well, with Scott enjoying his lectures, but it always feels like there’s reservation in Scott’s responses. Stiles is worried that Scott has finally realized how strange it is that they’re texting, but then his phone will chime and he’ll have a new text of Scott with Fuzzbuzz on his head. So maybe he’s imagining it, or maybe there’s another reason why Scott’s answers are sometimes short – he’s probably too busy studying. 

It’s late on a Saturday and he’s only just gotten home from visiting Jordan when there’s a knock at his door. At first he thinks he might’ve left something at Jordan’s, or maybe his dad’s checking up on him, but when he opens the door Scott’s standing there, looking bedraggled. And drunk. Very, very drunk. He’s listing to the side and his eyes are hazy. 

Stiles ushers him in, sits him down on his couch and goes to find the largest glass he can fill with water. He returns to Scott within thirty seconds, finds it hard to catch his breath as Scott rubs at his face as if he’s been crying. 

Scott takes the glass wordlessly, obediently. He starts to drink without Stiles’ coercion. 

“Scott? What’re you doing here?” he asks after Scott’s taken a few large gulps and placed the glass on the ground with exaggerated care.

“Wanted to see you,” Scott says, quietly. 

“Has someone hurt you?” Stiles asks, knowing it’s a leading question, that this isn’t the right way to be conducting this conversation, but the idea that someone’s gotten Scott into this state makes him physically sick and he isn’t thinking properly.

Scott laughs, hollow. 

“I was at a party and there was a girl there who asked for my number and she was so hot and really awesome to talk to but I wasn’t interested. And I thought, maybe if I kept drinking that’d change, you know? Alcohol impairs decision-making, right? Makes you do stuff you wouldn’t do. So I had another couple of shots and several beers. And now I’m here.”

Stiles is going to say something else, ask what’s happened, but Scott’s staring at him, beseechingly. 

“Why don’t you want me?” Scott asks. “I’ve tried to be stoic and reasonable and unaffected, but I can’t stop wondering.”

Stiles’ stomach ties itself into knots. He asked if someone had hurt Scott, and someone sure did. It was him.

“Scotty, God. I do want you. I want you too much,” he admits. “The way I want you… it’s dark, sometimes. It frightens me.”

Scott squints at him. “Dark?”

“You’re so perfect and I frequently want to ruin you.”

Scott doesn’t look disturbed like he should. He gazes at Stiles’ lips and sways into his space like he’s going to kiss him. Stiles puts a hand against his chest and softly pushes him away.

“Maybe I want to be ruined by you?” Scott slurs, frowning.

“You shouldn’t.”

“No, c’mon, explain this. I wanna understand. You’re a secret sadist? Want me to be the Ana to your Christian?”

Stiles snorts before he can stop himself. “No. Not like that.”

“You fantasize about seeing me in pain?” Scott prompts again.

Stiles shifts on the couch, wanting to be closer, but knowing he should stay far away. It’s hard to put into words, but he owes Scott that much. If he’d been honest from the beginning this might’ve gone smoothly, entailed less heartache and pining. He hates that he’s made Scott feel insecure. That was never his intention. 

There’s a long silence between them as Stiles gathers his thoughts. It’s stupid, but he’s thought about this so often and with such depth that it’s difficult to articulate. It essentially boils down to his deep-seated belief that Scott deserves better than him, but that sounds so facile. 

“I don’t want to see you in pain,” Stiles says. He looks at his hands rather than Scott’s face. “More at my mercy.”

“And would you be merciful?” 

“Sorry?”

“You keep acting like you’re doing this for my benefit, so I want to know – would you purposely harm me if I were at your mercy?”

“No,” Stiles says, swallowing a gasp. “Not _purposely._ ”

“You could’ve let me kiss you three minutes ago,” Scott says. “Could take what I offer without a second thought. You said I didn’t see a problem with this, and you were right. Because you see the lines and you don’t wanna cross them. And if you trust me to do the same, I don’t understand the issue. I can’t rationalize it. You’re an adult, I’m an adult, you were my teacher but now you’re _not_. You’re so damn scared of breaking me that you won’t even pick me up.”

“I think it’s hot that I’d be your first. I liked sneaking around town with you,” Stiles counters.

“So do I, so did I.”

“But you should be with someone you can hold hands with when walking down a street that isn’t miles away from home. Someone who values you as a person and can show the world.”

Scott leans his head against the back of the couch. “You don’t value me as a person?”

“I do. Of course I do. But I’m worried part of the attraction I feel is because of the imbalances between us. I can’t discriminate between what I feel for you because of who you are, and what I feel because of what we are to each other.”

“That doesn’t make any sense to me.”

“That’s because you’re drunk as fuck.”

“Yeah,” Scott says. He groans. “Yeah.”

“Drink more water. I’ll get you a blanket and a spare pillow,” Stiles says, standing up. “You can crash here. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

“You’re such a monster,” Scott says, peeking up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know why you’re interested in me, Scott. I’m a dick,” Stiles says. He says it offhandedly, but he can’t deny that it’s true.

“You’re my favorite dick,” Scott grumbles back. 

Stiles doesn’t think it’s entirely accidental. Can tell by Scott’s expression that he’s well aware of his words. But that doesn’t stop him from feeling fond. 

He grabs a blanket from his closet and one of the pillows from his bed. He’s a tangle of emotions. He’s confused. He’s angry with himself. He’s anxious. He’s shamefully happy that Scott’s here, that Scott still wants him. He’s in love. It’s difficult to parse, hard to cope with. 

When he walks back to the couch, Scott’s stretched along it, already close to dozing. The glass is empty, tipped over on the carpet, looking as sad and pathetic as Stiles sometimes feels. Stiles brushes his fingers through Scott’s hair as he helps him get settled. Refills the glass, finds his chuck bucket. He’s never thought of himself as particularly nurturing, but Scott brings out that side of him. It’s as much of a curse as it is a blessing.

He doesn’t get to sleep until the hour before dawn, head pounding as if he were the one who drank too much. He listens out for every noise from Scott, writes speeches he won’t say, mounts mental arguments he might or might not make. The horrible truth is that his resolve is slipping again. The horrible truth is that he’s tired of the effort that goes into doing the right thing.

But he must sleep, because when he wakes, Scott’s gone. The blanket’s neatly folded and the glass is sitting on his kitchen counter. There’s a note tucked under it, a single, “Sorry.” 

It cuts Stiles up and leaves him scattered on the wind.


	8. Chapter 8

After three days of radio silence from Scott, Stiles feels antsy and confused. They were going to talk, weren’t they? Have a long and heartfelt discussion? Except, Scott obviously didn’t want that. Scott disappeared on him. Perhaps when he was sober again he realized he didn’t want to hear any more of Stiles’ excuses. Maybe he was embarrassed, humiliated. And probably Stiles should accept that, let him go on his way, but he hates the idea that Scott felt like he had to apologize for any reason. He keeps picking up the note and tracing the letters. Can see the unsteadiness in the s. 

Against his better judgement, Stiles sends Scott a text. It reads ‘don’t be sorry, bee happy’. He attaches a bee image at the end.

He’s trying to provoke a response. 

He doesn’t get one.

Another day goes by and he’s not frantic, but he is concerned. He would have expected Scott to at least tell him to stop messaging. Every time his phone buzzes he thinks it’ll be a sternly worded “leave me alone”, but it’s usually an email notification, and frequently Domino’s sending him coupons for pizzas he’ll never eat. He’s sure his heart will thank him, eventually.

Stiles drives to the veterinary clinic. He spends four minutes in his Jeep, beating out a pattern against the dash and steering wheel, trying to muster his courage. Scott’s dirt bike is propped up in one of the lots, tires muddied and helmet attached around the side. Stiles sucks in a couple of deep breaths.

He’s going to check that Scott’s okay. He’ll tell him he needn’t have apologized, that he’s done nothing wrong, and then he’s going to leave, say goodbye, not come back.

When he goes into the foyer, Scott’s nowhere to be seen. He rings the bell on the counter and a man in scrubs comes out from the back room of the clinic.

“How may I help you?” he asks, politely. He’s wearing a badge stating Dr. Deaton. This is Scott’s boss. Stiles is standing in front of someone Scott once confided was a father figure. Great! 

Stiles’ tongue welds itself to his palate and his eyes feel like they’re bugging out of their sockets. 

“I ran over a kitten,” he exclaims, squeezing his fists tight against his legs when he hears how stupid and high pitched his voice sounds.

Dr. Deaton springs into immediate action, opening up the desk and advancing. “Did you place the kitten in your car?”

“The other day,” Stiles gets out, shaking himself to shake off his fear. “A couple of weeks ago. Scott helped me?”

“Oh,” Dr. Deaton says, his eyes sweeping over Stiles critically. “I remember. It’s a little late to be enquiring about it now.”

“This isn’t the first time. Scott told me about him before, I just, I was driving by and figured I should check up again.”

The words sound pathetic even to his ears and Dr. Deaton doesn’t look in the same realm as impressed as he continues staring at Stiles. At this point, Stiles is about 95 percent sure Dr. Deaton’s going to tell him the kitten is fine and send him on his way, but Scott comes into the room. 

He’s wearing a lab coat with the sleeves rolled up. It’s simultaneously adorable and hot as hell. Stiles’ nerves don’t abate for a second. Instead, his heart kicks up in speed, so loud he’s sure everyone in the room can hear it. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but what he _gets_ wasn’t close to what he could’ve imagined.

“Stiles!” Scott says with a surprisingly pleased smile. He turns to Dr. Deaton. “Okay if I take my break a little early?”

“We appear to be in a lull,” Dr. Deaton says with a warm smile. “Take all the time you need.” He pats Scott on the shoulder as he walks past.

Stiles gives Dr. Deaton a tentative wave as they walk through the door, a little worried by the concentrated look he gives them. He wonders how much Scott has told him, if anything at all. He wonders if he has any place or right to judge. Scott must have needed someone to talk to, and he’s said before how supportive his boss has been. In this situation, he understands the protectiveness, even though it makes him feel like he’s going to shit his pants.

Once they’re outside, Stiles doesn’t know what to do. He gestures to his Jeep and clambers in alongside Scott. 

Scott’s giving him that same small smile. “I was coming to visit you this afternoon. Now I don’t need to.”

“You were? You haven’t answered any of my texts,” Stiles says, dropping his keys into the foot well and wincing as he goes to retrieve them. He knocks his shoulder into the steering column, hits his ear against the wheel, catches his sleeve on the gearshift. He must look like a tool.

“Killed my phone the night of the party and can’t afford a replacement yet. Turns out the Samsung Galaxy S6 isn’t as waterproof as it likes to claim,” Scott says. He frowns at Stiles inquisitively, but then his face clears. Stiles isn’t sure he’s going to like his revelation. “Of course, you thought I was following in your footsteps. That was never my intention. I wouldn’t do that to someone.”

Stiles feels suitably chastened. “I’m gonna be apologizing for that forever, aren’t I?”

“I don’t know, are you?” 

Stiles starts the car and puts on his seatbelt before answering. “Yes, if that’s what it takes.”

“Takes to do what?”

“Make it up to you.” Stiles gazes out the windshield rather than look at Scott’s kind, calm, speculative gaze. “What would you like for a late lunch?”

“Early dinner,” Scott corrects. “Late night at the clinic. Burgers? I get an hour’s break so I thought we could get food to go and sit at the Preserve.”

“Sounds good,” Stiles says, driving out of the parking lot and using the distraction to gather his words and courage.

They’ve mostly spoken about burgers, fries and condiments by the time they pull up to the drive-thru, but thankfully that means Stiles knows exactly what to order. When he’s driving toward the Preserve, in between snatching fries from Scott’s lap and trying to ignore his moans of satisfaction at the deliciousness of his burger, he starts speaking.

“You didn’t have to say sorry for the other night,” he says. 

“I inconvenienced you,” Scott replies. “Disrupted your night. But the note was about how I was skipping out early on you. I had a meeting with my study group.”

Stiles is at a loss. “Okay. Well. That was kind of all I had to say.”

“Yeah? Because I remember everything about that night and I’m positive you said something about us talking in the morning.”

“Something about us talking,” Stiles murmurs to himself. “What a fool.” 

He continues eating fries to prolong the inevitable.

He parks the Jeep in the small lay-by at the Preserve, thankful there are no other cars around. He holds his hand out for one of the burgers. He speaks again as he unwraps it. He likes that Scott gives him time, doesn’t pressure him. It’s a courtesy Stiles doesn’t always afford others. 

“I should have spoken to you from the beginning, I recognize that. I knew it at the time. But the thing is, I’m constantly warring with myself. I felt like I had to push you away or I’d be too weak.”

“You did a good job pushing. It hurt, Stiles. Thinking you didn’t trust me. Thinking you didn’t _respect_ me.”

“But I do. You understand that, right? It isn’t you. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“The words of a thousand break-ups,” Scott jokes. He has a smear of mayonnaise near his mouth and Stiles wants to lick it off. 

“Clichés have some connections with the truth,” Stiles states, before taking a bite out of his own burger. He concentrates on the taste, lets ketchup have its dastardly way with his tongue. 

“Be honest – are you really worried about me, or are you more concerned with your own sense of self? ‘I’m not one of those teachers who fall for a student, I’m above those things’?”

It’s a harsh question, cutting. Scott’s staring at him without an ounce of judgement in his expression. Neutral. Stiles doesn’t think it’s faked. Scott’s always had an uncanny ability to see differing perspectives, to listen to dissenting voices. He’s open and accepting in ways Stiles himself struggles with.

“Both, I think,” Stiles confesses. He takes another bite in lieu of elaborating. 

He doesn’t know the truth. He cares about Scott and his wellbeing, but Scott’s proved himself to be resilient, strong and brave. When they went to the beach there was an air of innocence about him, but it was more carefree than childlike. Scott’s always seemed so put together, self-assured. And even though Stiles is aware some of his attraction comes from his id, the parts of him no one should be proud of, it only manifests toward Scott – which is not better per se, but sets his mind at ease regardless. 

And how much of these are flimsy excuses? How much is him lacking energy in doing what he knows should be done? Stiles watches the sway of branches and leaves, mind racing.

“Are you happier?” Scott asks next, jerky in his movements as he crumples up the packaging from his food and uses a napkin to wipe his fingers.

“No.”

“Me neither. I tried to be. Tried to see this as one of life’s important lessons. Tried to think of you as an asshole. To hold onto anger and refuse to forgive you. But that’s not who I am. I find it really difficult to stop caring for people. It’s dumb, but I’m… I’m happier when I’m with you.”

“I want you to be happy,” Stiles says, allowing himself to glance at Scott, drink in the view. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“You think you can accept that there are inherently fucked up aspects to our relationship?” Scott asks. Stiles takes a breath to answer, but Scott continues to speak. “But also acknowledge that this doesn’t mean it isn’t worthwhile?”

“I want to.”

“You should follow your heart. Because I gotta say, your angst is self-indulgent at this point. Bordering on completely sybaritic.”

Stiles can’t stop the bark of laughter that escapes him even if he wanted to. “Oh, really?”

“Why did you come to my work today?” Scott asks instead of directly replying. 

“I hated the idea of you feeling humiliated over the other night,” Stiles responds. He tells the entire truth. “I hated not hearing from you.” He shifts in his seat, settles so he can see Scott, face to face. “You think _you_ can accept that there are inherently fucked up aspects to our relationship, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worthwhile?”

“I accepted that a long time ago,” Scott says, softly. 

It’s a bit like a punch to his solar plexus. A bit like a kiss on the lips.

“Can we be friends?” Stiles asks. “I feel like I still need time to sort this all out in my head. But I miss our conversations.”

Scott nods, slowly, then adopts the sneakiest expression Stiles has ever seen. “You gonna buy me a new phone to facilitate that?”

“Dude, you probably make more money than I do. But I actually have an old phone I could loan you. For the measly price of a text a day.”

“Weeks of the poop emoji once a day coming your way. Got it.”

Stiles laughs again, wants to reach out and tap Scott’s shoulder. But he won’t. He still feels too raw. They’ve talked it through, laid it all out. It’s liberating, but that brings terror. He doesn’t deserve a second chance. Having one is like holding a priceless, irreplaceable artifact with his fingers covered in butter. Any second now he’s positive he’s going to slip and watch it smash. Just by holding it, he’s smudging its perfection.

“I guess I should drive you back to work,” Stiles says, throwing his trash into the back of the Jeep. He’ll deal with it later. That should be his motto in life.

Scott lets out a slow, quiet sigh. “Yes, please.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out this was longer than I intended and there will be one more part after this.

They text almost every day in the following months. End up hanging out frequently, once by accident, bumping into each other at Stiles’ local grocery store and choosing to spend the afternoon on the lacrosse field at the school, Stiles’ old sticks coming out of retirement. It’s blissfully isolated, like they’re the only two people in the world. Scott strips off his shirt after a grueling series of failed goals and Stiles can’t deny that while he enjoys Scott’s company on a platonic level, he’s remembering wrapping his fingers around those sides and pressing close to his smooth skin. He’s assaulted by sense memory, the tangy scent of Scott’s perspiration, the taste of his mouth, the feel of his warmth, the sound of his breathing. He’s disappointed when Scott complains about the cold and covers in layers again. 

There’s almost always an undercurrent of tension between them, but it’s weirdly, ghoulishly pleasant. Like picking at a scab, or scratching at chicken pox. You know you shouldn’t do it, that it might be harmful in the long-run, but it feels so good. 

Scott’s at Stiles’ place in mid-spring, napping on the couch. Scott’s spent all day working on a paper, occasionally asking for editing advice, mumbling to himself. It’s something he does, sometimes. Stiles’ neighbors haven’t commented, but they’ve surely noticed. Scott says he feels guilty whenever he’s at his own place because there’s always some chore he could be doing, and while he could be at one of the campus libraries, he discovered early on that someone he knows will come and deliberately distract him. 

Stiles has noticed that Scott’s an interesting kind of popular -- people flock to him, want to talk to him and bask in his warmth, want his advice and help, but they don’t always return the favor. He has close friends that this doesn’t apply to, but none of them are with him at Berkeley. Allison and Isaac moved interstate, Erica’s traveling, and Mason’s still at Beacon Hills High. Stiles thinks Scott’s lonely sometimes, but Scott doesn’t say anything to make him feel that. He just always seems pleased to be in Stiles’ company, even if they’re hardly talking, even when Stiles is cranky from long days teaching students who have so much potential and no drive, or some potential but a lot of attitude. 

And Stiles feels the same about Scott. He spends time with Jordan, skypes Boyd, messages Lydia and even joins his dad for late night poker games with his old cop buddies, but he’s happiest in Scott’s company, regardless of how much they actually interact.

Stiles glances over at Scott periodically and sighs. Scott looks so content, arms around one of Stiles’ cushions, leg propped up so his knee’s bent, hair falling onto his forehead. Stiles dragged a blanket over him a half hour ago and hasn’t been able to tear his eyes away for more than five minutes since. Scott’s been working his ass off lately, taking on extra shifts at the veterinary clinic and completing his coursework, and it’s obviously been taking its toll.

Stiles decides it’s high time he do something indulgent. He makes dinner from scratch. No microwaving or reheating. He even uses fresh vegetables, chopped to precision. He’s very impressed with himself. Scott wakes up when he’s halfway through measuring out the gnocchi, homemade sauce simmering on the stove.

“What’s all this?” Scott asks, sleep-roughened. He leans close to Stiles’ side and peers over his shoulder, his hand resting on Stiles’ shoulder-blade. “It looks incredible.”

“Figured you need sustenance,” Stiles replies, deliberately nonchalant, because he wants to spin until he’s got Scott pressed up against his kitchen counter, he wants to kiss him until his carefully constructed dinner is burnt and inedible, wants to make Scott moan. There’s also a part of him that wants to gather every scrap of Scott’s approval and keep it safe, close to his heart. It’s a lot to be contending with.

“I didn’t know you could cook.”

“You can’t?”

“I can. Every couple of months I’ll go to Costco and buy everything I need in bulk and spend, like, the entire weekend making meals to go in the freezer. You gotta see a mountain of breakfast burritos. It’s the best.”

“How are you so… Scott?” Stiles asks, waving his hands around as if that’s explanation. He thinks it is. It should be an adjective synonymous with wise, clever, compassionate, considered, and mature. “When I was your age, I was so juvenile.”

“Not much has changed in five years, then?” Scott responds, expression fonder than it should be given the words.

“Hey, we just established that neither of us will die of starvation in the next 48 to 54 hours thanks to me.”

“I haven’t tasted any of this, yet. All _I’ve_ established is that you can make something that looks and smells like food. That’s only two thirds of the task.”

Stiles gently pushes Scott away, still wanting to hold onto him tightly and get him gasping. He concentrates on completing the final stages of cooking the meal, distracting himself from the promising solidness of Scott’s body by saying, “You know, usually when I wake up from a nap I’m sweet and kind.”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Scott jokes back. Stiles notes the ‘when’, not ‘if’. It makes his stomach flip-flop.

He retrieves a soup spoon from his drawer, dips it into the sauce and offers it to Scott, hand placed carefully to catch any drips. Scott stares at him as he dips forward and licks the sauce off the metal, tongue flicking out in a way that makes Stiles’ whole body react. The sound Scott gives out only intensifies the situation. Stiles honestly isn’t sure he’s going to survive the night.

Scott licks at his lips again, cheeks sucking in slightly when he finishes. “This’ll teach me to be disparaging. It’s _insanely_ good. Is that fresh oregano?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, unable to stop himself from grinning. 

Scott rolls his eyes, his whole head following. “Ugh, why do I get the feeling I’ve made a huge mistake?”

“I don’t know, Scotty, you tell me. Is it because you forgot that when I’m around you’re gonna get schooled?”

Scott’s expression goes deadly flat. “That was terrible.” He taps Stiles lightly on the arm, gestures vaguely to Stiles’ bathroom. “Is it all right if I go wash up?”

“Of course. Take your time if you want. Dinner’s still a few minutes away.”

Stiles serves the food, feeling light and airy in a way he hasn’t felt since… forever. Yup, forever seems about right. When Scott comes back into the room, Stiles has gotten plates, cutlery and glasses of water ready, and on a whim, has set up some candles in the center of the table. Scott looks at them for a long moment, biting into his lower lip. Stiles is initially worried, but then Scott ducks his head and gives the world’s most beautiful smile. 

“Tell me about your classes,” Stiles demands when they’re seated and have cleared almost half their plates. Scott’s frequently reticent when it comes to talking about how things are going and Stiles is concerned it’s because he’s struggling under too much responsibility.

“You wanna hear about that?” Scott asks skeptically. “Aren’t you sick of school-talk?”

“Different kind of school and you’re involved,” Stiles says with a shrug. “So no, not really.”

The candlelight throws Scott’s face into relief, so Stiles can see every micro-expression, the minutiae of each unconscious twitch. Scott isn’t quick enough in concealing his look of surprised joy.

“They’re good,” he says, twirling his fork between his fingers. “The amount of reading required is ridiculous, so your skimming tips have saved my life at least four times. I’ve surprised myself in enjoying the humanities more than the sciences, but I’m getting better grades in Biology as History than the History of Art.” Scott shrugs. 

“But you’re glad you ended up going, aren’t you?” Stiles prompts. He might have been feeling guilty he practically strong-armed Scott into applying. Maybe. It’s a possibility.

“Yeah, Stiles. It was the right choice. Academia doesn’t come easily to me. You know, I see some of the other students and they’ll party all night and never study, but still get awesome grades, which I’m not gonna even try to do, but I’m sure wouldn’t end well for me. But I like it anyway. I like the challenge, I love learning new things, and I know it’s gonna help me get to where I want, so I’m gonna keep doing my best.”

“Which is why you’re my favorite,” Stiles says, smiling softly.

“I’m not your student anymore,” Scott reminds him.

“I meant person.”

Scott settles back in his chair slightly, rubs at the rim of his glass. “How’s your head?” he asks. 

Stiles is about to question the non sequitur when Scott continues. 

“Is it sorted? It seems pretty sorted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this were a date.”

Stiles scratches at his neck, bites his thumb. “I agree,” he says eventually. “Official first date.”

Scott quirks an eyebrow. “So what were we doing before?”

“ _Unofficially_ dating,” Stiles replies with an eyebrow waggle.

He takes a breath and decides to be open, honest. He’s never been great at that, consciously. He’s known for being blunt when he’s not thinking about it, rash, and cutting, and bordering on cruel. But to give a truthful part of himself deliberately, with thought and care, has always been a struggle. It’s about trust, he thinks. And power. Trusting in someone else enough not to take advantage when he’s weak. 

“I don’t wanna sneak around again,” he says. “I don’t wanna shout about our relationship from the rooftops either, because I _could_ get arrested if someone makes a case we were together while you were my student. But I want to be with you. I’m not denying or hiding that anymore. Maybe we’re a little fucked up, but I don’t care. Unless, of course, you don’t want me, at which point, pretend the last half hour never happened.”

“I want you,” Scott says. “And I think, if we’re honest with each other, this could work.”

“You make one massive mistake and you pay and pay and pay,” Stiles says, shaking his head.

“Shut up and kiss me,” Scott replies. 

So Stiles does. It’s as perfect as all their other kisses, warm and wet and welcoming. Stiles makes himself a home in Scott’s arms, a place to feel safe and secure. 

“I’m in love with you,” he murmurs against Scott’s mouth, thumb brushing at the nape of his neck. 

“I’m in love with _you_ ,” Scott echoes, nudging into another kiss.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles is honestly confused by happiness. He doesn’t quite know how to live with waking up with sparks of hope and joy as opposed to a determined yet grudging sense of purpose, doesn’t know what to do about his aching cheeks and the realization he’s been smiling for minutes at a time. Thinking about Scott before always brought a measure of shame, but while he still regrets the circumstances surrounding their relationship, he no longer regrets anything else, so there’s undiluted ecstatic anticipation now. 

His life isn’t perfect. In thousands of ways it hasn’t changed. Not in any significant way since he started spending more time with other people, when he purposely made friends and built connections to surround himself. But it feels fuller, it has more weight, and he never thought that would be a good thing, but it is. 

Of course, his dad notices within twenty seconds of them catching up for beer and a game. 

“Who is it?” he asks, already sounding resigned. Stiles is about to answer, but he’s cut off. “It’s the guy I don’t want to be asking questions about, isn’t it, Stiles?”

“I’d like you to meet him,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But I kinda need you to promise you’ll put your family before your job.”

“I always have, in the past,” his dad says, piercing him with a particularly interrogative stare. “Just tell me one thing, did it start when he was in school?”

Stiles is seriously in awe of his detective skills. But he probably shouldn’t be, given the evidence he’s presented.

“Depends how you define both ‘it’ and ‘start’,” Stiles says, scrunching his nose. His dad gives him the darkest glare. “We never kissed. Then. We’ve kissed a lot since. Uh. We danced? I didn’t mean for this to happen, Dad. You’ll understand when you see for yourself.”

His dad shakes his head at him in a painfully weary and familiar way, like he’d been expecting this for months. But he doesn’t give Stiles the third degree, so there are small mercies.

*

Inviting Scott to his place for Sunday lunch knowing that his dad’s going to be there feels a lot like asking him to offer himself as a sacrifice to the Gods.

Scott quirks an eyebrow at the analogy. “Hopefully my blood letting will lead to consistent prosperity in the kingdom.” He rests his hands on Stiles’ sides. “I don’t think I have a lot to worry about. You meeting my mom, on the other hand…” Scott trails off, faux terror etched into his features. Worryingly, Stiles doesn’t think it’s entirely faked. 

“We’ll be all right, won’t we?” Stiles asks. “Even if things don’t go entirely to plan.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be reassuring me?” Scott counters. 

“Yeah,” Stiles admits. “Okay, this is what you need to know. My dad’s gonna love you like a second son. He’ll totally think I’m undeserving of your love.”

“That’s good, then,” Scott says with a smile. “He and my mom will be on the same page.”

Of course, the plan doesn’t go exactly as Stiles expected, when, instead of going to Stiles’, his dad insists they go to his.

Stiles paces his breathing as he lets them into his dad’s place and shields Scott behind the trunk of his body as he calls out. 

“Hey, dad, we’re here,” he yells, sounding awkward and stilted. His dad comes walking out of the kitchen in a matter of seconds, wiping his hands down the front of his jeans. He looks as scared as Stiles feels.

But when he sees Scott, his expression shifts. Stiles has a feeling he’d been expecting Scott to look like a gangly freshman, but most days Scott looks more put together, more adult than _he_ does. And he knows that’s the tale he tells himself to make this sound okay in his head, he knows it’s the excuse every creep in his position has up his sleeve, but it’s still _true_. 

Stiles’ dad holds his hand out and welcomes Scott into his home. Stiles benevolently doesn’t point Scott’s already in.

“Come in here so we can chat while I cook. I’m grilling.”

“Please tell me you also made a salad,” Stiles replies, already rolling his eyes, exaggerated for Scott’s benefit. Scott gazes quizzically back. 

“I made two different salads. Rabbit food for you, ranch-smothered for me,” his dad counters, smiling down at his grill. 

Something settles, low in Stiles’ gut. If his dad is here teasing him, being mock cantankerous and frankly lackadaisical about his health, then maybe he isn’t about to be disowned and thrown onto a trash heap. He asks him about his latest cases, doing his best to ease Scott into the conversation, but Scott doesn’t really need his help. His dad’s an FBI agent, so he already knows the right and wrong questions to ask. He seems genuinely interested too, but not in a morgue-chaser, give me all the gory secrets kind of way. 

Stiles isn’t sure he knew that about Scott’s dad before, only that he’s aggressive like Scott never wants to be. It feels weird learning something so basic at this point and he’s reminded that although they’ve known each other for over a year and a half now, a lot of that was superficial acquaintanceship. He still has a lot to learn about Scott, and while he could have seen that as daunting, he actually loves it.

The conversation has moved on as Stiles has been thinking and when he tunes back in, his dad is asking Scott about his life plans. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing, except it highlights how Scott’s at the beginning of this journey in a way Stiles isn’t.

“Have you declared a major, yet?”

“Biology. I want to be a vet.”

“You know Alan Deaton?”

“Yeah, I work at the clinic part-time.”

Stiles’ dad nods approvingly. “He’s a good man.”

“He’s kind of my surrogate father. When I first came to Beacon Hills, I used to go and ask if he had any small jobs I could do, mostly because I was bored and lonely, but also because I wanted to pet the puppies. So I’d help him clean cages, wash down work surfaces, reorganize files. And one day he turned around and asked if I wanted payment for all the work I did.”

Stiles can imagine Scott trying to turn down the offer of a paycheck and he sniggers to himself, earning two glances; one confused and one disapproving. 

“Thinking about you refusing,” he explains to Scott.

“Are you kidding? I’m nice, but I’m not a moron.”

Stiles’ dad watches this interaction with slightly narrowed eyes, like he’s assessing, seeing how they fit together. Stiles pointedly doesn’t draw attention to it. 

By the time the food’s ready, they’re talking animatedly, Scott showing his dad pictures of Fuzzbuzz, and Stiles is in his comfort zone, surrounded by the two people he cares for the most in the world. He starts to think maybe he can have this. Maybe he can be happy.

*

An hour after Stiles gets home that night, he receives a call from his dad. 

“He’s a good kid.”

“There aren’t words that describe how good he is.”

There’s a sigh and then, “Stiles, you’re my son and I love you. But I don’t want you to think I’m a hundred percent on board you being in a relationship with a boy who’s just started college. A boy you taught.”

Stiles lets out his own sigh, twists his face up. “But you like him, don’t you?”

“ _Stiles_.”

“Because I love him. I’m ride or die for him.” He waves his hand around to illustrate his point, even though his dad can’t see him.

“Surely it’s the other way around? That he’s ride or die for you. I mean, which one of you’s most likely to endanger the other?”

Stiles snorts through his nose. His dad is especially pedantic when he’s frustrated. “It’s a mutual self-destructive thing.”

“Yeah, I can tell. You know that’s a terrible thing, don’t you? Entire plays have been written about the tragedy of that situation. Tread lightly, okay? Be careful. Like I said before, he’s a good kid.”

“I will, dad.”

“I don’t wanna see anyone hurt.”

“I know.”

“See you on Wednesday?”

“Of course. I owe you dinner. Seeya, dad. Love you.” 

*

(He encounters Melissa McCall by accident when he’s eating lunch with Jordan and Boyd one day. It doesn’t go well. She definitely knows who he is and she absolutely doesn’t approve. Stiles hopes time and circumstance bring about improvements, because it _really_ doesn’t go well. The less thought about it, the better.)

*

Scott likes sitting on him, which Stiles doesn’t have the tiniest problem with. It’s not like Scott’s that much smaller than him – it’s maybe an inch height difference when Stiles is standing tall in a way he almost never does, and Scott’s slightly more muscular and broad shouldered than Stiles is. The one time they fell asleep on the couch together, Stiles was the little spoon. But Scott likes putting his legs up and over Stiles’ and it morphs into his ass nestled against Stiles’ groin or settled on his lap, and sometimes they’re facing opposite or perpendicular directions, and _other_ times they’re facing each other. 

The latter position often ends in making out. Almost always. It was only once when it didn’t, and that’s because Stiles had the worst of all colds.

Stiles loves kissing Scott; seeing how many different kinds of sounds he can get Scott to make, how many syllables he’ll break Stiles’ name into. Scott’s always so gentle with his kisses, like every one is precious and fragile, and Stiles wants to be that careful too, but sometimes he slips. Sometimes he can’t help but kiss with more vigor, more force. Stiles once asked if Scott minded, and the look in his eyes was dazed as he asked why he ever would. 

They’re making out in a manner that’d likely get them arrested if they were in public, when Scott scratches at the back of his neck and Stiles makes a strange sound beginning with a ‘b’ completely unbidden.

“You’re not gonna call me ‘baby’, are you? I like ‘Scotty’, but not ‘baby’,” Scott murmurs, still working at that spot with perfect rhythm.

Stiles takes a moment to parse his words. When he does, he realizes it’s something he can easily accommodate. “Okay. Please don’t call me ‘daddy’ either. It’d be… weird.”

“Jesus, Stiles, I wasn’t planning to. Like, at the most, I’d slip in a ‘Professor’ or a ‘Teach’.”

Stiles laughs, pinches his side. “Too soon, Scotty.”

“Never soon enough,” Scott counters. “Which is something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Stiles isn’t sure where this is going, but Scott’s tone of voice is the same one he uses when he’s being decisive and commanding, so he reflexively sits up straighter and tightens his hands on Scott’s hips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think I’m ready,” Scott says. He shakes his head, bites at his lower lip. “No, scratch that. I know I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?” 

Scott raises an eyebrow. He takes Stiles’ hand and places it on his own crotch, where the denim is visibly straining and Stiles can feel heat and hardness beneath his fingertips. Stiles’ mouth goes suddenly dry. 

“What do you think?” Scott teases. 

“Are you sure? Because this is good. This is better than. And I don’t want you to feel pressured to do anything you’re not interested in.”

“I’m interested. I’ve been interested for a really long time. I trust you.”

This is dangerous territory. Stiles still has that little voice inside him that whispers about wanting to devour Scott. Still gets a shiver up his spine when he thinks about the word _first_. He doesn’t want to hurt Scott, but there’s a strong urge to make his mark on him, possess him so no one else can. 

Stiles tentatively moves his hand so he’s cupping Scott through his jeans. There’s the promise of thickness there and Stiles wants to show Scott what he could do with it. 

“Can I?” Stiles asks, gesturing to Scott’s fly. 

Scott nods, helps him undo the button and zipper, pull the jeans off and away. His boxer briefs are charcoal and there’s already a wet patch near the top, darker than the rest. The outline of his cock has Stiles’ fingers twitching to touch him again, so he does, working him through the cotton, feeling him get impossibly harder.

“I’m gonna take this to the bedroom if you’re okay with that?” Stiles mutters, distractedly. 

Scott says something about that sounding good to him and Stiles lifts him up, carrying him into his bedroom. Scott’s legs are curled around his back and his ass is in the palms of his hands, and Stiles has never been as turned on before in his life. 

Stiles swallows thickly when he finally has Scott on his back. He looks like all of Stiles’ teenaged wet dreams, and most of his adult ones too. His hair’s mussed, his lips are glistening, his chest is rising and falling with steady, deep breaths, and he’s practically glowing in the lamplight. He looks like he’s there for the taking. Stiles strips off his own shirt and jeans, joins Scott on the bed, bracketing him with his arms. He kisses Scott’s mouth first; deep, involved, then starts a trail of kisses, with a couple of hickies thrown in. 

Scott makes very encouraging noises and curls his fingers into Stiles’ hair, directing his journey persuasively. 

“Is this okay?” Stiles asks after he’s elicited a veritable squeak from Scott, biting tenderly into the fleshy part of his hip. He’s nuzzled into his happy trail twice and is hoping Scott will say yes so he can go a third time. 

“I’ll tell you if it isn’t.”

“Promise?”

“Yes. Just do whatever it is you’re offering, ‘cause I’m already kinda close.”

Stiles looks up at Scott’s expression, sees heavy-lidded eyes and pink lips. He looks nearly completely disheveled. It’s a great look on him, and one Stiles hopes to see many more times. “You are?”

Scott kicks his shoulder. “Don’t act like you’re not. I’ve seen you adjust yourself at least four times. It’s uncomfortable, right?”

Stiles tries to grin, but it might come out more as a grimace that belies his next words. “In an enjoyable way.”

He pulls down Scott’s underwear and gets his mouth on him ten seconds after their conversation. Scott is thick and hard against his tongue and Stiles wants to learn what’ll make him keen, what’ll make him arch. But maybe not tonight. Not if he’s only just about to come.

Stiles loves giving blowjobs. There’s an art to it he thinks he’s skilled at – nothing elegant, nothing with finesse, but something raw and untameable. He loves the response he gets when he sucks a guy down to the root. Scott’s clutching at the sheets, making breathy little moans, and Stiles swirls his tongue around. It’s mean, maybe, teasing him like his, but when Scott digs his toes into his back, he doesn’t care.

Stiles wants this to be memorable, but not as a story Scott will tell about how much of an asshole he is. He shows mercy and returns to the job at hand. 

Stiles sucks, hollowing out his cheeks, goes back to sliding down and up, popping off Scott’s cock with an obscene slurping sound, before wrapping his hand around his thick, solid base and taking him all the way down again. 

“I’m gonna…” Scott whines, then comes with a shocky tremor before Stiles can do anything about it. 

He doesn’t mind. He actively _likes_ it, that he made Scott feel so good he lost control. That he has Scott’s come filling his mouth. He spits it into his trash can after a while. He’ll deal with the mess later. When he’s not so keyed up and doesn’t have a beautiful man in his bed. 

Scott hums, sighs, pets at Stiles’ head. “That was a good start,” he says, voice richer and deeper than normal. 

“Start?” Stiles queries. 

“Ahuh,” Scott confirms. He beckons Stiles to join him higher in the bed and then brings him off with the world’s quickest handjob. It only takes half a stroke.

Later, Scott shows Stiles how he opens himself up for toys, using his fingers and a filthy amount of lube. His legs are spread wide and his fingers keep dipping, moving, relentlessly. Stiles helps him after he’s too affected to keep _watching_ , and the slide of his finger alongside two of Scott’s into tight heat has his brain short-circuiting. 

They shift position, with Stiles lying back, clutching Scott’s sides, as Scott rests above him. Stiles is prepared physically, but he couldn’t wager that he is emotionally. It’s a lot, to think that Scott is choosing to be with him, choosing to experience this for the first time _with him._ It makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, makes his nerves sing to their own frequency. 

“If you’re gonna have a crisis of conscience, it better happen within the next couple of seconds,” Scott says, eyes darkening.

“You’re such a little…” Stiles begins, but then Scott’s easing down on his cock, waiting for a moment or two before he begins to ride like it’s second nature. 

He’s a force to be reckoned with, teeth digging into his lower lip and eyes scrunched shut. There’s a sheen of sweat over his furrowed brow and his arms hang loosely on Stiles’ shoulders. 

Stiles helps him adjust angle and the look of gratitude on Scott’s face is immense. 

He opens his eyes, murmurs a soft, “Oh,” and presses in for a kiss before rocking back to how he was placed before. Stiles can hardly thrust up at all, but it doesn’t stop him from trying. He lets Scott dictate the depth and speed for the most part, content to watch Scott discover new movements, cause and effect.

Stiles comes first this time, any and all stamina eroded by Scott’s insistent kisses and swiveling of his hips. Scott joins him soon after and once they’ve had a cursory wash-down, pulled the sheets off the bed, and cuddled under the comforter, they wrap their arms around each other and fall asleep.

*

Stiles awakens before Scott does, which surprises him. He gazes at Scott, cataloging his features. There’s a very noticeable hickie just under his collar bone, and what looks like beard burn along his jawline. His limbs are splayed wide and he looks content, sated, smiling even as he sleeps. Stiles doesn’t feel any shame at all for that, for giving Scott that. He’d give Scott that forever, if he could.

Stiles has learned through this experience that he’s not the good person he always thought he wanted to be, but he knows he can grow to be better with Scott by his side.


End file.
